Sol Invictus
by flufflybunny
Summary: The Undefeated Sun. Five vignettes spinning off my fic Sunrise, because for whatever reason I couldn't let it go. In which the fairytale ending rolls over, baring the rotten darkness at its core. Heliocentrism
1. Elva

So I wrote this fic at school during Social Studies (because my teacher? Is so boring); it's a little spinoff-au-thingy from my oneshot Sunrise (of which I am inordinately proud). Chances are it's quite confusing. Hopefully there will be more to compliment this, but yeah.

These are a lot like Sunrise (and Aaron Sorkin)--scattered bits of information, where the story isn't spelled out for you and a lot of the background you have to extrapolate (also, not in chronological order. At all). So I guess you could say they're intentionally confusing. (Not to mention pretentious.) It is even more confusing than intended if you have not read Sunrise. You can go do that now, the story'll wait--and you'll be a lot better off.

That said, I'd love to hear different interpretations and if you'd like to hear my version of how things got here, lemme know in a review or PM and I'll babble away happily.

Disclaimer: Not mine. CP's.

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_Sol Invictus (or, Five Conversations Murtagh (doesn't really) have)_

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Part One: Elva & Murtagh  


There's a violet-eyed girl standing at the end of the pier, white fluffy sweater damp and clingy from the sea air. Her dark hair is tangled and messy, whipped by the salt-sea wind, and she's smiling into eternity.

She looks very young, and sort of vulnerable.

"Hey," he says, half-hesitant, and takes a step forward, cautious still.

She looks at him; the smile fades, a little, and she bites her lip; wraps her arms tight about herself. A sea-bird cries, wheeling in the sky.

He doesn't look away—catches her gaze and holds it, instead. He's spent far too long, searching (_for her) _to have her vanish on him now.

She says, "Yeah." It's a whole conversation, in two syllables--'hello' and 'i missed you' and 'i love you' and 'i'm sorry' and a thousand other words and nuances of conversation; they've always understood each other better than anything else.

He says, quietly, "We thought--" The words pierce the silver silence, and hang there poised like Damocles' sword.

"I know." She looks _so young _and he's suddenly, piercingly, _glad_ that the curse is gone, that the silver's faded on her brow, and he thinks that he could kill Eragon, for her. "I didn't--"

And he's taking the next two steps to their logical, inexorable, conclusion, and she's in his arms, the warm soft smell of her lingering on his skin and in his mouth and he's crying, soft wet tears on the scratchiness of her sweater.

She says his name; drops a gentle kiss on his forehead and lets him fall.


	2. Arya

_Sol Invictus (or, Five Conversations Murtagh (doesn't actually) have)_

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Part Two: Arya:

Arya says, "I do love him, you know." Her words hang in the silence, hesitant and passionate.

Murtagh nods; he doesn't say anything. They're in Du Weldenvarden, on Arya's turf, where the trees tangle Murtagh's hair in a not-entirely-friendly manner, settled in a sunny clearing Arya seems to know like the back of her hand. Something about this feels _wrong_, and Murtagh can't shake the chilly feeling at the back of his neck. He's a traitor, as far as elven-kind are concerned, and coming back to the 'good' side is nowhere near enough to get him off the hook for being (Morzan's son) who and what he is.

"I know you think--" she's continuing, her voice thick with frustration. There's a butterfly in her hair, decorative almost, and bright green like her eyes (used to be).

He shakes his head. "Arya, I'd never presume--" It's odd, talking to her; he needs _words _where a syllable or a hand-motion would suffice with, say, Elva or Thorn or Nasuada, those people who are like extensions of his soul.

She laughs, hollow and wry, like the end of forever. "Well, I know what everyone thinks." Her eyes are empty pits of green, pupils too dark, lacking every hint of soul.

He'd want to hurt Eragon, for this, if he didn't know his—brother—well enough to know that Eragon honestly doesn't notice his mate is shattered into a thousand shining shards, or know that he's the only one who could maybe fix her. Murtagh almost wishes he didn't see through her walls; misses that time when her defenses were different enough from his own to fool him.

Murtagh lays out his hand, palm-up, on the tree-stump that bridges the gap between them, an offering. "Since when have I been part of everyone?" he asks. He hopes she gets the message.

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Disclaimer: CP's. Though I doubt he ever thought about repercussions in this much detail. 

Reviews are love.


	3. Roran

Next part--yes, they are short. They were meant to be random vignettes and then they became a five things aaaand meh. Reviews are good?

Disclaimer: Do I even _want _Inheritance?

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_Sol Invictus (or, Five Conversations Murtagh (doesn't actually) have):_

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Part 3: Roran

It's a cold night tonight; the lone man walking down the street has his hands buried in the pockets of his thick long coat, and his breath is white in the air. The nails in his boots click against the cobblestones, a steady rhythm as he heads home, unhurried.

Murtagh slides out of the shadows, pushing off the newly-whitewashed house he was leaning on, and follows him, silent as he's ever been.

They hit the end of the street; Roran veers to the right and turns around sharply, eyes like flint. "Hello, Murtagh."

Murtagh nods, wincing internally, and remembers why Roran always annoyed him. Then there's a sword at his throat, in a silver-quick motion he almost admires, and he's got his hands up. He closes his eyes; sighs, cursing end-of-it-all promises. "Hello, Roran."

"You're such an idiot," Roran spits (_oh, god, he's _still _bitter?_) but the sword is sheathed and even if Murtagh's got a hole burned in the back of his neck from Roran's glaring at least there's no blood trickling down his neck. (_Because that was so much fun, last time._)

"Yeah, well. Eragon seemed to think so." Murtagh grins, a little; Roran returns it. Eragon fled, left the world he saved (_ruined) _to them, and of _course _they're angry—he isn't here for them to forgive them and so they don't.

Roran starts walking again; when Murtagh waits a bit (_hey, he's a glorified bodyguard, what else is he supposed to do?_) the younger man stops and rolls his eyes. "C'mon," he says, smiling genuinely, the first time Murtagh's seen since _then_, "Katrina's got pie, and the children'll be glad to see you."

Murtagh thinks, for a fleeting, heart-breaking moment, that he looks like Eragon.


	4. Eragon

So this ficbit is ridiculously short; I'm sorry! (The last one is even shorter). Anyway. Reviews are ftw?_  
_

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_Sol Invictus (or, Five Conversations Murtagh (doesn't actually) have):_

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Part 4: Eragon:

They're at the end of the world, sheathed in warm airy darkness. Eragon's lying on his back, hands folded behind his head, floating at the same level as Murtagh's waist. Murtagh, who's sitting cross-legged in the air, ethereal non-wind ruffling his hair, whistles briefly, a snatch of half-remembered lullaby he'd probably rather forget.

Eragon opens his palm and a tiny bird wings off through the darkness; Murtagh grins. "Told you you'd like it here."

The younger man smiles, shyer than Murtagh's seen on him before, but truer. "I never knew magic could be like this." The elven beauty seems to fit him, then—the wonder in his eyes makes him so much more than he is, that broken, badly-made child who was the sum of all his parents (_alcoholic, liar, whore_) and makes him something shining.

There's jealousy, burning low in Murtagh's stomach, but that's always been there and it's not likely to fade anytime soon. He says, "This is what Galbatorix taught me," and whispers _I'm sorry _where the boy can't hear it.


	5. Thorn

Disclaimer: CP's. Though I doubt he'd want this little bit?

Reviews are love.

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_Sol Invictus (or, Five Conversations Murtagh (doesn't actually) have)_

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Part Five: Thorn:

The scream, when it comes, rends the air as sharply as a dragon's claw but less neatly, leaving choppy bits of the screamer's heart and blood and soul hanging, suspended in the sky.

_I'm sorry_, he says, _I love you--_

I love you too. Goodbye.  


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End file.
